Saturday, December 1, 2007

In byways of duty that led me through danger,By valleys and slopes that were tinted with bloodIn crackle of Maxims and roar of shrapnelWhen death in its coming rolled up to the floodIn heat, dust, and vermin and stench of the fallenIn sweat and in sorrow, in struggle and toil,In waiting and watching, in nerve-racking vigil,In sap and in traverse entrenched in the soil,In dreams of Australia and hours of remembrance,In longing and sighing, in hope and regret,In vision of bushlands and homes of my fathers,In myriad scenes that a man can't forget,In pride in our army the men of Australia,The living, the broken, the maimed and the dead,In sympathy keen for the loved ones who sorrow,In pride for the cause that we've fought for and bled.In brilliant transcendence of sunrise and splendor,In colours of grandeur the sunsets have worn,In shade, shine and shower, and days of forebodings,In mirth and grey sorrow these verses were born.

Why did I go to the wars ? “Dunno.”No doubt is was Destiny forced me to go,I hasd dashed little knowledge of national thingsPertaining to treaties and statutes and kings;A hazy idea that a ‘ell of a scrapWas twisting and changing the tints on a map;Grim tellings of slaughter and terrible shame,And capping them all was Germany’s name;Of fates worse than death for a mother and maid,Perhaps throughtit all I was somewhat afraidWhen remembering those who are\ dearer to meThan my life. And yes, there may beIn the thoughts of their honour an impelling spurTo make things quite sure for my mother and Her.Perhaps ‘twas some writer or speaker I’d heard,Yhe blood of my ancestors wakened and stirred,And flung to my brain an appeal to my breed.Mayhap I followed some other chaps lead.Or was the natural love of a scrapSome sort of dare devil wakes in a chap,That challenges death for a jest or a taunt,The sheer joy of living that nothing will daunt,I dunno but I’ve fought and I’ve been through the mill.What made me a soldier’s a mystery still;But home’s not a home if it’s not wortha fight –All things puttogether I know I’ve done right.Through danger and dark days and death I am here,I’m not learned or clever, but one thing is clear,I’ve a lot to be lost and dern little to gain,Bit if things were reversed I’d just do it again;For I know (for I’ve seen) that war is just hell,Where death lurks with vermnin and noise and foul smell,But all things considered I’d go out once more,Though I’ll nevber know rightly what takes me to war.

I meet with the boys and the gay toasts pass,The sparkling wine and the cheerfull glass,The long grey nights and the blazing log;The clinging folds of the misty fog,The comforts of homeland everywhere—I think of the boys who are still out there.

Out there knee-deep in the slush and mud,Splashed and mingled with comrades’ blood,Bearing the burden of those who lagAnd fear to follow the dear old flag.Sunset’s grey with the tint of care,For millions are thinking of those out there.

On earth goodwill and peace to men.It sounds like a hollow mockery whenI mark the horrors my eyes have seen(They can never know who have never been)War striped of its glittering glamour bare—They see it naked, the boys out there.

They are fighting a sordid war, where trenchAnd traverse is full of noisome stench;Theres ittle of berserk warrior lust,It’s wait and suffer while bayonets rust.It’s easy to dream in an easy chair;But I dream and I pray for the boys out there.

Out there wherever “out there” may be,From Belgiums’s ruins to farthest sea,Wherever the Union Jack still flies,Flaunting its pride to the shot-torn skies.For them our tenderest loving care—God prosper the boys who are still out there.

SongA tender thought for the days that have been, A recreant sigh,Tipped with the gold dust of romance, I wean, Howewards willfly.Now evening wakes to blessWith starry night’s caress,My memories softly press Tears to my eye.A brighter thought for the dsyd yet to be As yet unborn,A lilting song for my meeting with thee, Dear love forlorn.Peace all my longing fills,I dry my tears. Now thrillsSoft O’er the distant hills First rays of morn.

Australia, my Australia, should e’er it be my lotTo live in distant exile in lands that love thee not,Through all the days that follow the dreary yearning yearsThe music of thy medodies will echo in my ears,The voice of bushlands whispering, the glipse of moss-strewn dell,The flowers on thy mountain side, more dear than asphodel,The bowers of fern and heather by which the springtime waitsAnd sets her myriad gems ashine within thy wave-washed gates,The flashing fire of wattle trees in league-long rows will rise,The glory of thy hill and plain will spring tp cheer my eyes,Their rosaries of blossom, the insense of its fire,The perfume of its yellow beads, the breath of my desire.

September o’er your kindly face will strew the gifts of springWith sweet boronia scent and flower and wild clematis flingWith lavish hand. On sunlit slopes the trembling dew-kissed levesWill steal the tints from sunset clouds and red gold from the sheaves;Will fill your ears with melodies and twittering songs of birds,Soft rippling of the water pools where drink the milking herds.

Ah, I will see thee forever, September at its best,Thy songs and melodies of spring in flowery verdure drest,O keep thy kiss, my country, thy smiling mother face,For those who love and leave thee and find no better place,For those in distant exile who dare the hand of Fate,To keep thy well-loved honour and homes inviolate.I ask no more, Australia, my dear loved native isle,Than this my longing hallows, the welcoming of thy smile.

SongTwo roses bloomed, o wondrous fair,And cast their fragrance everywhere;Love culled one rose and twined it in your hair,A perfect rose beyond a flower’s compare.The other rose that blossoms in the areOf duty, I its fragrance shareTo-day. For sundered far, thereAre the blooms that love and duty wear— Your flower and mine.

What is fame ?A flash from the darkness of oblivionOf forgetfulness and prejudices.

The sounds of recognition after silence,The apex of ambition and attainmentWhat is fame ?The remembrance of deeds and misdeedsThe names of heroes and knaves of greatCunningOn the lips of the populace and oratorsWith intent for good purposes or evil

I hold no brief for wrong-doersBut for the fame of our fair island,Her gallant sons and nobler mothers,In whose ears are sounds of sacrificeAnd in whose nostrils is the incense of burntOfferingIn their hair, cypress and rue.

What is fame ?A sound mingled with beating of wings,The dark-moving wing of the Angel Death,Deathless, immortal,yet born of death andSacrificeSinging above our fallen brave and living heroes.

Fame was born on the height of Gaba Tepe,On the wave-bitten stretch of its beaches,On the battle-scarred sides or its slopes,In the breast of the gallant living,In the bier of the honoured dead.

In the great heart of the nobler mothersFame revealed to the wondering worldThe wondrous fighting gallantry of our men.

Until the last stars are crashing into oblivionAnd darkness is thrust about us,The lasttrump echoes o’er chaotic voidShall fame die not from the heart of mankind

WHEN earthward came God’s ministering angels three,Love, Mercy, Hope, out of the abyss castOf human passion, from their chaos vastThey bore a blossom tenderly.Its petals all the blazoned emblems boreOf blessed spirit trinity who drewThe flower from the deep, its being boreThe kiss of love and mercy’s blessed dewAnd hope in all her singing symphonyIts blooms are twined in duty’s flowing hairAnd in the cypress wreath and rue they bear.They flourish’neath the ministering angels’ care.Men know the bloom and call it – Sympathy.

The brazen bugles’ blaring notes,The rhythmic tread of marching feet,And rousing drums impassioned beat,The cheering from a thousand throats,The lordly pomp of martial pride,The roaring flames of murder, lust,And flashing play of sabre thrust,The crash of cannon far and wide,The echoes of the victors cries,And anguished call of fallen men,The silence of the slain, and thenI hear the song that underliesThe chorus born of death and hateThat croons and plays and softly singsOf vanished peace and sweeter thingsThat chant above a tyrant Fate:The cll of love in subtle part,The yearning of a sister’s breast,The sad sweet rune of fame’s bequest,The sorrow of the mother-heart.

Gay songs of birds and fragant blooming Flowers,Sweet sunlight on the shimmering, glimmering Sea,Bright drops of rain from lately fallen showersBejewelled by the sunlight o’er the dewy lea.

In sunshine, rain, grey clouds, and drifting shade,Tears, smiles, and joys out little lives are run.Hopes, meetings, partings, and our part is played,Shine, shower, and shade, and then the setting sun.

O, friend of mine, y dearest wich is this,That shadow, cloud and tear, and fleeting SmileBut serve to prove to you the dearer blissOf things that make our living worth the While

When nightfall flings her shadows everywhereHer hallowed forms in soft reliefs appear,The flowers in her hair the more endearThe ypress wreath the chaplet that I wear,Lo, I her hands the light of other days,Of star-lit skies and singingbirds and flowers,Where beauty lent her romance to the hoursAs roses lend their fragrance to the air.

And in ther eyes the tender wistful gleams,Of love and home, the jewels that I keepStored in my heart set all their rays astream,When memory drooping turns aside t weep,Flees just away as broken morning dreams,I gaze and lo, grey duty’s form is there.

When you’ve shouted “Tipperary” till yerThoats’s as dry as chipsAnd you’ve chorused “save the King” toBeat the bandWhen yer’ve raised yer brimming’ bumper in yerToastin’ to yer lipsAnd downed yer glass with no uncertain‘and,‘As if ever dawned upon yer that it’s deeds notwords we want,And its nearly time yer took yer fightingKi,For we’re out for keeps for freedom, and it ain’tNo pleasure jaunt,And its nearly time yer did yer little bit.

When yer fling yer adulation to the players “onThe ball”Who are battlin’ for the small elusive sphere,When yer laud yer fancy player in a wildEcstatic callAnd the roar come from the grand-stand tierOn tier,Do you know the game we’re playing is theSternest ever played,And our side in sweat and blood and tears are knit,And our ranks are thinned out daily by theRepaers sharpened blade—Cbber Bill, its time yer did yer little bit.

You who play in comfort round a petti-Coated hemAnd sparkling eyes that hold yer from the front,Work it out as what might ‘appen to the old Folk and to themIf the boys had ever borne the battle’sBruntYes it’s worse than death or murder is theMethods of the Hun,On his Kultur all the world has paused tSpitIf yer love yer girl and old folks, stir yer stumpsAnd get a gunAnd come out here and do yer little bit

Can yer revel in the freedom that our blood isFlowin’ for ?It’s like a patch of ‘ell when there’s a scrapCan yer stick it out forgettin’ all yer cobbers atThe warAnd never think you ought to fill a gap ?Say, its nearly time yer chucked it, roused yerSleepin’ manhood’s flame,Got yer military pack and shouldered it ;Got en route for france (or elsewhee), thus in doing play the game,And once out here we know you’ll do your bit.

We’r not growlin’ or complainin’, though it’sDreary, weary work,And death lurks in the sea and sky and air ;We ‘ave a good ‘alf Nelson on the stubbornFightin’ TurkAnd we’re needin’ you to help us keep it there,For it takes us all to hold him in strangulationGrip—The moral is we want more men to wit—He’s a mighty slippy josser, and before ourFingers slipCome out here, old son, and do your little bit

What can we say? The kindest phrases marThe heartfelt sympathy we feelFor those who in thir sorrow kneelTo mourn their loss. Our word but jarIn trite expressions. To his dear afarIn clinging strands of bonds of human griefWe twine for him and them the ru and laurel leafCall him not dead. For without stainHis name all-glorious purged of earthly stainWe cherish lovingly; not all in vainThe sacrifice. Sleep on, brave heart, our lossIs softened by our pride; though freedoms gainFor thee and thine is shadowed by a cross.

Awake, the slender hands of fameAre clasping banners of the day,The silver flash of glory’s flameShines on the laurel wreath and bay;Triumphant still, freedom and truth,Our lode-star and their oriflamme,The jewel of Australia’s youthIs still aflame.

These brave, who died tat silver bandsOf Austral’s honour might not break,We leave within their Maker’s handsFor Austral’s sake.

Gippsland, VictoriaHere where the goddess of peace and quietAnd muses all from the place have fledMen distraught in their hate run riot,And gibbering death is crowned head,Nightfall gathers her armies sableHer screed has little but hate to showThere comes to my mind like an oft told fableMy castle a dwelling by Lindenow

When night is full of the red deaths screamingMaddend by slaughter a fiend accurstHis altar fires in the shell-burst’s gleamingPaeans of lust in the shrapnel-burstAbove the roar and the smoke of battleI can see the Mitcell, and sweet and lowI can hear the call of the roaming cattleIn the homestead paddocks by Lindenow

Where the sun’s las rays in their dying quiverGild the fronds of the drifting sedgeSpear-shafts hurled to the silver riverThrough willow trees at the water’s edge,Shadows deep on the waters swingingTo and fro in the Mitchells flowSoft the breeze through the gaunt trees singingOver the clearing to Lindenow

Water link from the Baw Baw’s fallingWinding down to the ocean’s breastBy fer-decked bowers where bell-birds callingSing good-nght to the tinted westClear through the blffs and rocky ledgesOr flats as rich as the Mitchell knowOf springing maize in its soft green wedgesRiverward pointing by Lindenow

Here where the virgin-clad spring weatherKindled the wattle tree’ lambent fire,Songs of birds and the flashing feather,Life the end of the path desire.And now to-night I can sit and listenAnd hear the song of the Mitchell’s flow,Catch the glint as the moonbeams glistenOn her smooth broad bosom by Lindenow

See the smoke from the homestead lifting,The blinking eyesof its lamps ashine,Hear the rune of the horse-bells drifting,The low soft call of the browsing kine,The clingiing scent of the La france rosesDrifting down on the night wind sough-I hearken and gaze and my heart reposesWhile memory lingers by Lindenow.

If the clinging folds of the ancient ReaperCover me close to the Earh’s warm breast,Then shall nonour be my souls keeper,Duty contented will bless my rest.If freedom of flight to my soul be given,I know of a surety I must goTo the nearest approach that I know to Heaven,Home Australia, and Lindenow

When the summer is falling into twilights fading lightAnd the guns are booming everywhere around,In the raucous voices shouting proud defiance to the night,We can feel a store of comfort in their soundIn their smashing crashing rattle we are fighting freedoms battleAnd we are out to win as empires loyal sonsIn their belching fiery breath there is red and sudden deathTo her enemies out there before our guns.When the slopes and hills are gleaming in the flares from trench to trenchWhen rifles crackle like a wood alightThe clouds of fumes come rolling with burning powders stenchAnd the flashes show in lines across the nightEvery shot that goes a- flashing through the lead-torn night a-crashingIs an effort to an ultimate resultEvery cartridge we expend is one less toward the endOf the menace of the vile Teutonic KultOf the foul man-killing terrors and the ripping shot and shellCannot break the moral spirit of the ranksFor amid the awful chaos when they loose the bars of hellThey're as calm as if the foe were firing blanks.All the hail of high explosive and the awful gas corrosiveAny terror that the Teuton can inventCannot daunt us in the fight; through the curtain of the hightWe can hear out guns, and hearing rest content.There is a music in their booming when they're sending blow for blowIn the whistling of the shells upon the wayThat will burst in flame and fury on the hidden distant foe,and we glory in their firing night and day.And if I must pass in battle, let it be amid their rattle,One of Austral's humble freedom-loving sons,Happy, thus thrice happy I, quite content if need be dieIn the rhythmic music of Australia's guns.

Days of danger, death and daring,days of shadow, strew, and shine;Times of warfares fitful flaring,hours of toil in mound and mine.Times of toil in trench and traverseSad as sin in toil and sapHours of horrors grim that have ushaunted in our every nap.stench of stricken soldiers lyingDead and frightful out in front,Long, long lanes of brave men dyingAfter some successful stunt.

After these, sweet scenes of beauty,Homeland, Mother England's breast;After death adn danger, duty,Sweeter are the hours of rest.

I received an email from Nick McGuigan of the Royal Brighton Yacht Club in Melbourne. During some tidying up in the club he had found, in a book, what appears to be an unpublished poem by Frank Westbrook. It is clearly signed by Frank but lacks a date. I have reproduced it below. Thanks to Nick for sending this to me. (Bill 20/11/2010)

Possession

Oh the sea is wise and the sea is old,
Its arms are greedy and strong its hands,
The strength of the sea is seldom told,
And few disobey what the sea commands
…................................................

If you would go down to the sea in ships,
The hungry sea with its arms outspread -
Turn from the sea where the shoreline dips
And look to the quiet hills instead.

For once have known how the mad sea goads,
With the plunge of water the tilting keel;
Followed the sun down the ocean's roads
And watched the gulls in the fairway wheel:
Heard the whistling winds rush by to scour
The sea-washed sides of a battling ship,
The hiss of a spray-flung salty shower
And felt your hands in the oceans grip.

Once you have known the lash of the spume
That over the lunging bowsprit spills,
And the sea's white horses fret and fume,
You may never return to those quiet hills
…..................................................
As a craft made fast to a shore-held quay,
(You'll know the urge, when the darkness falls,)
For sight and sound of the restless sea,
The salt sea breeze, - when the ocean calls.
…..................................................
So when you have given the sea your heart-
Or the sea has taken your heart-: oh then
You are sealed a lover – a soul apart -
You cannot reamins with the hills again.

Oh the sea is wise and the sea is old,
Its arms are greedy, and strong its hands;
The strength of the sea is seldom told
and few disobey what the sea commands

Thanks to Bram Taylor, I have gained a little knowlege about Frank Westbrook.

Francis Edmund Westbrook was born in 1889 at South Yarra in Victoria Australia and died in 1976 aged 87 years in Hawthorn, Victoria.

On enlisting, Frank described his civilian occupation as a cook but in the army he held the rank of Trumpeter in 2 FAB [Field Artillery Brigade. He shipped out on the HMAT Shropshire on 20/10/1914.

Before Gallipoli, Frank (and his regiment) were in Egypt. His records indicate that after months of front line action he was evacuated from Gallipoli with "severe Diarrhoea", this was actually a euphemism for Dysentry. Many soldiers at Gallipoli died from Dysentry and medical staff were under pressure not to report it as such. Frank initially recovered on the Greek island of Lemnos before being returned to England in early 1916.

Frank met, and fell in love with Winifred Eggleton. They were married on 21st June 1918. In fact Franks Army record sports a number of AWOL's during his time in England, obviously love was more important obeying petty deadlines!

With his new wife he returned to his beloved Australia, and as far as I can ascertain lived a normal life back in his homeland. I do not believe he produced another book of poems or prose.

Frank was very much a "working class" hero. While his poems may lack some of the finesse of Sassoon or Auden they are ( at least to me ) deeply moving, especially when he relates to his fallen comrades in poems such as Percy or Good-bye

Occasionally some of the propaganda of the era shows through, but surely this can be forgiven. Frank was a brave ordinary soldier "doing his bit". The world is in short supply of people like Frank and his fallen comrades, we should remember their sacrifice and celebrate their courage.

The small cove where the ANZAC's landed and established their beachhead during the Gallipoli Campaign became known as ANZAC Cove, or simply as ANZAC.Many of Frank Westbrooks poems are signed off with a date and the simple location of ANZAC. I have reproduced these as in the original after each poem, where found.

The Gallipoli campaign of April-December 1915 stands as one of the most incompetently managed military operations of WW1. In many cases the landing forces were without maps and knew little of the terrain. The Turkish forces were well dug in and covering the landing grounds with machine guns. The initial concept of taking Istanbul and knocking Turkey out of the war soon evaporated and Allied troops were withdrawn in December and early January. Casualties on both side were appalling (approximately 140,000 Allied and 250,000 Turkish)

This was the first major campaign for the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) and is widely regarded as the anvil which molded and established their independant National Identities.

Please Note: The index is now in the correct order as found in the book, however if you read the poems as a sequential blog I have yet to try and sort them out. All poems have now been transcribed as of 4th March 2008, 92 years after they were written by Frank Westbrook.

If theres anything here you would like to email about (corrections/information etc)email me at the following address (Please put Westbrook as the first word in the subject field then hopefully I'll avoid spam!) I may take some time to reply as I only check this email address weekly.Address is bill_rees@yahoo.co.uk

Thanks and I hope you find the word of Frank Westbrook as thought provoking as I do.regardsBill

The Poems of Gunner F.E.Westbrook

Gunner F.E. Westbrook of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps took ashore the first field gun during the Gallipoli Landings in 1915. His words are now almost forgotten but deserve to be read.Kind Regards Bill (transcriber)

Possession - Unpublished poem

An unpublished poem by Frank Westbrook has turned up at the Royal Brighton Yacht Club in Melbourne. Thanks to Nick McGuigan for sending this to me. It is reproduced here immediately after the last poem from the book. Or use This Link